


The Art of Making Margaritas

by M_L_Davis



Series: The Masterpiece of Will Shaw [1]
Category: The Cold Light of Day (2012)
Genre: F/M, Female on Male Rape, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Pedophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, The Cold Light of Day (2012) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 13:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18941935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_L_Davis/pseuds/M_L_Davis
Summary: Jean loves spending time at her partner's house because that's where his ten-year-old son is too.*Dark fic*





	The Art of Making Margaritas

**Author's Note:**

> Heeds the tags and warnings.

* * *

 

Jean loves a good margarita.

This is not a good margarita. She grimaces at it.

The wide-eyed boy sitting at the table twists his hands together. So willing to please, is this boy, and Marty is too stupid to see it.

Jean smiles at him, sets the glass down, and cards a hand through his tangled curls.

He shudders under her touch, and she can’t wait to feel it on her skin.

There’s something exciting about taking the innocence from a child, especially one so inclined to behave.

Marty really doesn’t know what he’s missing.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she croons, lifting him by his chin, leading him to the doorway. And there stands the sniveling younger brother. Eight to William’s ten years.

Josh. How Jean hates her godson.

He doesn’t have the same people-pleaser nature that Will does. He doesn’t shudder when she brushes past him. Instead, he stares balefully, angrily after them as she takes Will down to the basement.

There’s an old army cot set up down her for when Laurie remembers that Marty can’t keep it in his pants and makes him “disappear” for a few days.

Jean bars the door before Josh can make his inevitable appearance. William moves to the cot without prompting, sitting down, hands in his lap. His head is bowed.

Inexplicably, Jean wants to push her knuckles into his face, smear his blood over his features. Use it to paint him in a way that will show him just how much he is hers to play with.

Instead, she snaps her fingers at him, orders him up, makes him disrobe.

Shorts, t-shirt. Cartoon boxer shorts.

William stands, hands to his sides, letting her study his scrawny, boy frame. He knows better than to cover himself. So obedient, so perceptive.

Jean undresses quickly, folding her clothing neatly.

Then, she sits on the cot, pats the space next to her.

William sits too.

She pushes him down, straddles him.

He cries when she makes him enter her.

Just a boy and yet so much a man.

She licks the tears from his face, bounces harder, finds her perfect rhythm and rides him to orgasm.

He doesn’t shove her off, but he does tremble so sweetly when she draws up and starts rocking again. He’s hard in her cunt. He hasn’t struck puberty yet—his scent isn’t the sour-sickly stench of hormones, so she doesn’t worry about his ejaculate. She’s on the pill anyway.

William cries harder when, even after a few more orgasms, she doesn’t climb off him.

She lays her head on his chest, listening to his heart beating wildly while he tries to choke off his sobs.

It’s perfect. Everything is just right.

She sighs, shifting to kiss his lips.

Then, finally, she climbs off him, ambling to the toilet in the corner to piss.

He’s still lying on the cot when she gets dressed, hands pressed over his face, and he makes a snuffling sound as he stifles the sound of his crying.

Jean has no patience for this shit and she hauls him up by his hair, shoving him to the toilet. “Get cleaned up,” she commands, looming over him as he leaks urine down his legs, no effort to aim at all.

She growls, hand against his back. It’s so easy then to push him. He falls forward, hand flailing out to slam against the mirror Marty installed so he could shave.

The corner catches just right, tears his palm in two.

She expects him to start crying harder, but he just stares at the blood dripping off his hand. His breath still rattles in his chest, the congestion working to clog him up, but at least no new tears fall from his eyes.

Jean uses a rough towel to dry his legs and then helps him dress to keep the blood off his clothes. Then, she takes him upstairs.

Josh is nowhere to be seen, and Laurie and Marty are still busy outside hanging up a basketball hoop for their athletically inclined son. Jean leads said son to where her margarita is still sitting on the counter. She lifts it, smiling at the vile contents before smashing it down. William startles, breath hitching in his chest as she makes him press his bloodied palm to the shards.

Within moments, the rest of the Shaws are gathered in the kitchen, and Laurie is fussing over William’s hand while Jean stutters through an apology for not watching the boy close enough.

Only Josh looks at her suspiciously.

Marty makes a noise of disgust deep in his throat. “Go get stitches, Laurie,” he orders his wife. He smiles at Josh. “We’ll clean up the mess. Right, son?”

Josh nods, seemingly relieved that he hasn’t been asked to accompany his brother to the ER. Jean wants to go, to make sure the boy keeps his mouth sealed shut. She trusts him only in the sense that he hasn’t spoken out yet.

It’s a dangerous thing, what she’s trusted him with. He could destroy her with a few syllables. Well, the only way to counter it is to strike first.

Laurie doesn’t like Jean, too sure that her husband has enjoyed a tryst with his partner. If only she knew that Marty is the furthest thing from attractive to Jean.

“Do you want company?” she asks anyway, surprised when Laurie nods.

“Can you drive us?”

Nothing would delight Jean more.

She smiles at mother and son. Only one of them shudders, and Jean has to physically stop herself from licking her lips in anticipation of playing again.

Oh well, there’s always next time.

Of course, next time doesn’t happen for nearly twenty years, and by then, William barely resembles the scared boy he was, and although Jean only likes her men under fifteen, she can’t deny that the hopeless look on his face doesn’t make her want to take him to bed, to show him again what a woman with experience can do.

And then the little shit tricks her, and she sees nothing but Marty and Josh in him. She vows then to kill him, past attachments be damned.

* * *

 


End file.
